The Screwtape Letters
by Not James Barnes
Summary: A HYDRA engineer and the former Winter Soldier go on the run. Also known as; Steve and the man once known as Bucky exchange increasingly sappy phone calls, post cards and text messages as they recover from the trauma of the past seventy years, and grow closer in spite of it all.


**Author's Note: **I just want to say, I wrote this for me, as a way to cope with what happened to me a year ago, and the resulting trauma and giant gaps in my memory. There's a lot of guilt, angst, and pain in here, and Bucky spends so much time with OC's because, again, I wrote this to heal. I guess, then, with all the flashbacks and jagged narrative, this story is along the same lines of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five, as Vonnegut, too, wrote that to cope with his PTSD, here I've written this to cope with mine. Hopefully, I'll be healthier and more healed for the next year. So! Apologies for the extensive use of OC's, and sorry for the hell I'm about to put all the characters through.

I guess I just want to ask y'all to be nice about this. Like I said, this is something I'm writing to cope, y'know? All the panic attacks, the fear, the feelings of dysphoria, that's all stuff that I've felt as a survivor. So, I'm writing myself here. Please… don't rip me to shreds, I guess? Thank you.

This picks up immediately after Pierce backhands Bucky in the bank vault, and from there it goes into intense recovery and repair for everything that's happened.

**One last thing: Trigger warnings. This fic will detail graphic violence, extensive mental trauma, mainly in the form of PTSD, and have several references, some explicit, to rape/non-con.** Be safe 3

**Disclaimer: **Only Irene and her family are mine.(: Everything else belongs to Marvel (well, technically Disney, but whatever). Also, spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

* * *

"The man on the bridge."

_Bucky?_

Recognition, shock, fear, horror, pain, agony, pain, agony, agony.

"Who was he?"

The Master said something. Assignments. Earlier. Weeks. Something. Bitter, and bitter, and lies and lies.

_Bucky?_

"I knew him."

The Master leaned closer, all serious, lines from age and ugliness, and pain and sacrifice for… not…for the greater… for the… for good? For…

For…

_Bucky?_

"But I knew him."

His face twisted, he could feel it. Moved on its own, changing, into something, something so long forgotten, a something like a…. Like a…

_Bucky?_

"Then wipe him and start over." The Master's voice clanged with finality.

They shoved him back, the stick of sweat-stained leather against his back, the bitter plastic of the guard shoved between his teeth, but he let it, let it, the man's voice, his face, husking against the edges of his consciousness in a chorus.

_I knew him. I knew him. I knew him. I knew him._

He heard the machine whir to life, crackling, hissing, spitting and his breathing came in gasps in gasps and his chest heaved and heaved and the air, wasn't enough, not enough, not, not-

_Bucky?WhothehellisBuckybuckybuckybuc-_

"Wait." The Master spoke again, a strange expression on his face.

The machine bit at the air beside his head, his hair standing on end.

Air struggled into his lungs.

His right hand trembled.

"Get von Otto. Last week he promised to have his serum testable." He said, after a long pause.

One of the engineers looked up at the Master. "Are you sure, Pierce? Von Otto's stuff has left all the test subjects out of commission for days. We only have a few hours before we need to use the asset again."

Oh. The asset.

That was him, wasn't it.

An asset. A thing.

He was…He was…

_Bucky?_

"The asset has a faster metabolism than the test subjects. It'll be able to catalyze it fast enough. If it reacts as the subjects do, then there will be nothing to be concerned about. Quick. Fetch the man." The Master made a gesture to several of the engineers standing at the edge.

A pause, then one stood, and slipped from the room.

The Master watched him go, before reaffixing his attention on the asset. He sat back down, his gaze steady, thoughtful. "One look at Steve Rogers and you start to remember. We trained you better than this. Hopefully, von Otto can fix this little programming glitch." He murmured, still studying the asset with wise, calm eyes. "Quite a feat, isn't is?" he asked, the question hanging in the still air. "One word breaks through decades of programming. I wonder, what really was the nature of your relationship?"

The door banged open, the lone engineer ushering in a slip of a man, drenched in clothes too big for his frame, horned glasses dangling precariously on his nose. The man stumbled forth, small, wrinkled hands flying to his glasses, keeping them pushed up the bridge of his nose.

"Yes? Vhat is is you vant, Pierce?" His accent was so German, so thick, so thick and…

…and… wrong?

He'd… he knew what a real German accent was.

Didn't he?

"Is your serum ready? I want it tested on it." The Master gestured at him. At the asset.

Von Otto adjusted his spectacles, shrugging his coat further up his shoulders. "Yes, I sink a test run vould be a good idea. Ze formula should be finished." Von Otto hesitated and turned to the Master. "Haf one of your henchmen grab ze rack of test tubes and ze syringes from my desk. I sink zat should be all zat I need." Von Otto's voice hitched, just a bit, something dark fluttering across his expression.

The asset bit down on the mouthguard. Hard.

The Master looked at the guards at the back of the room. On cue, they picked up their guns and hurried to retrieve the requested materials.

Von Otto stepped closer to the asset, shadows crossing his face. "Vhat is ze issue you're hafing vis him?"

The Master waved a dismissive hand. "Damn thing's remembering its old pal, Captain America. That's its next target, too. I need it wiped by the time it has to fight the guy so it can kill him without any problems."

Von Otto peered at the asset for a long moment, his eyes a dark, dark green. "Turn off zis machine of yours. I don't vant it ruining my experiment."

The Master narrowed his eyes, turning to face Von Otto fully. "Now, don't you think your serum will work better if he's more compliant?"

Von Otto glared, the crow's feet by his eyes bunching, deep, deep valleys carving through his face. "Are you zhe biochemist here or am I? I vent to Harvard, von of the zhe best programs in zhe nation for biochemistry and you did not. Do not question me on zhese sings."

The Master held Von Otto's gaze for a while.

"Very well," he said, after a pause, before turning to the engineers standing by the machine. "turn it off, like Friedrich here wants."

Von Otto's expression flickered.

The machine powered off, the hissing in the air around his skull dying away, his hair falling flat again. The asset dug his fingers into the armrests, then loosened his grip.

His right hand trembled.

The guards returned, guns slung over their shoulder, carrying a rack of test tubes. Tubes that glittered blue in the watery, yellow light.

The asset's right hand trembled.

Von Otto stepped back, away from the asset, away from the lights and back into the shadows. Walked to the vials and mixed and poured the contents.

The asset watched von Otto's hands shake, a bead of sweat pool at his temple.

The asset counted time in each drop of sweat that dripped to the ground from the bottom of von Otto's chin.

One…

…and two…

…and…three…

And…and…

And.

Von Otto tapped the syringe.

The asset watched the liquid track down the side of the needle.

Von Otto turned to face the Master.

…and…a fourth…

The Master pursed his lips. "Is there a problem, Friedrich?"

Von Otto gave the Master a wan smile. "It is just zhat…I vish I had zhe opportunity to study his brain after zhe drug. I know zhat ve do not haf zhe time… but I vish…"

The Master snorted, his lips twisted. "Alright. After this, after its done with its mission, it's all yours."

Von Otto's face split in a smile, but his eyes remained dark, dark, dark. "Vonderful, sank you Mr. Pierce."

Forced, so forced, so forced-

"Very vell. I vant all of your goons out of here. Zis is going to be a very precise experiment, and if any of your senseless fools disturb anysing, it is all for not!"

The Master huffed, and stood. "Alright." And made a sweeping gesture to the guards and engineers, who shifted, stood, and filed from the room. The Master hesitated, his hand hovering by the door. "Von Otto," The Master pulled off his glasses, tucking them into his suit pocket. "try your best to make it scream? Teach it a lesson it won't forget anytime soon, I don't want to have to rewrite its programming again, once it becomes your lab rat."

Von Otto's mouth twisted as he turned towards the asset. Something lit behind von Otto's eyes, harsh and harsh and-and

Angry?

"Do not vorry, there vill be plenty of screaming." The corner of Von Otto's lips curled.

The Master's lips went tight, but he nodded once. Looked at the asset. A smirk snarked across his face. Then, he left, the door a hollow clang in his wake.

And the asset was alone.

Alone with the scientist responsible for all the screaming.

The grey of his mind drudged up the voices of guards that husked, whispering about the scientist who made all the subjects scream, and scream themselves hoarse, about the never ending whimpering that came from his lab.

Mad, they'd called him.

Mad.

His muscles locked as von Otto knelt before him, his breathing ragged, broken. One slender hand reached up and brushed the hair from his forehead, feather light, thumb caressing the sweat and the grime away.

"I need you to scream, okay? When I put this needle in, you must scream like your muscles are tearing themselves apart. Can you do that for me, _querido_?"

He gasped in a breath. The accent was gone, von Otto's words whispered soft, so soft into his ear, barely a hush of air. Closed his eyes against the pain he felt was coming as the needle bit his left shoulder.

"_Querido_, listen to me. This is not going to harm you. It's lidocaine. It will make the pain in your arm stop for now, but I need you to scream for me like it's hurting you real bad. Scream yourself hoarse and listen to me, because we are going to get you out of this mess."

He bit down harsh on the mouthguard as he felt the drug filter into his bloodstream, muscles bunching, tightening. His nails clawed crescents into the arms of the chair. The clamps around his arms groaned against the shudders that wracked his frame.

"_Querido._ Listen to me. You must scream, okay? You were right. You knew him. You _know _him. Scream like you are in pain, quickly, please, we do not have much time."

Something in the mess of his brain slotted into place, clicking, clicking, like _IknewhimIknewhimIknewhimbutIknewhimbutIknewhim- him-_

_Him-_

_Bucky?_

He threw back his head, a guttural moan wrenching from somewhere deep, deep in his chest, the snarl of pain through his nerves fading, fading…fading?

Lidocaine.

Lidocaine.

Used to relieve inflammation and pain temporarily.

Oh.

_Oh._

Von Otto's voice rasped beside his ear.

"Scream for the next ten minutes, okay? Please, scream for me." Von Otto hesitated. "You do wanna leave, yeah? I won't take you if you don't wanna go. This is your choice, _querido_."

Between groans, he nodded, and bit down harder on the mouthguard. Von Otto tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear and pressed a kiss to his temple. Then he pulled back and began bustling around the room, to the machines around him, pushing buttons, pulling levers and.

And…

And…

The magnet locking his arm in place powered off. Moments later, Von Otto unbuckled the straps that tied his arms and chest to the chair and-

And-

He could move.

A whimper died in his throat, his gaze latched on the doctor.

Von Otto paused from where he had pulled a safety deposit box out, throwing him a desperate look.

The asset stared.

Von Otto's eyes widened, the line of his shoulders tightened and he jerked his free hand at the asset, wild and desperate.

"Please, _querido,_ I need you to scream, okay?" He hissed.

The asset drew in a shuddering breath, his head thumping back against the leather of the chair, tearing a moan from his body.

His muscles locked up, the stick of the chair slick against his skin. It slunk along, seeping into his system, sliding into his veins, soaking his nerves.

The hairs on his flesh arm stood on end, a shudder humming up his spine and into his skull, ringing and ringing and ringing, and ringing louder and louder, until it forced into his mouth, his teeth chattering and rattling and-

And-

Noise.

Pained, broken, violent noise wrenched from his body, his back bowing under the pain, his eyes rolling back in his skull, the mouth guard's hard, plastic tang muting his senses and the air-

The air-

Where was the air-

He couldn't-

Couldn't-

Breathe-

Breathe-

Brea-

The-

A wracking clatter shattered through the veil of agony as his left arm punched through the machine.

His chest heaved.

No-

No, no, please-

It wasn't-

Wasn't his fault-

The doctor-

He'd been _good-_

He'd done as he was told-

Where was the air where was the air where was the air where was theairwherewastheairwherewasthe-

Another noise gasped around the mouth guard, a weak, helpless sound of terror.

His eyes burned and he choked on the air filtering into his lungs.

He sucked in more air in a feeble moan, panting, panting, another sob dribbling like saliva down his chin.

Another heave, and he forced his eyes open, the room a haze of watery light and color until-

Until-

Von Otto's slouched shape cleared against the wall, his dark, sharp eyes meeting his gaze. His lips twitched in a thin smile. Von Otto turned, then, back to fixing explosives to the wall.

Fixing. Explosives. To. The. Wall.

And arming them.

Arming. Explosives.

He watched, rapt.

His right hand trembled.

The doctor shuffled back over, gently slipping his hands beneath his arms, pulling, tugging the asset to his feet. The asset swayed, his vision blurring, blurring and darkness rushed in around the edges and his legs gave out, but, but

The doctor caught him, holding him steady, until the murk cleared from his sight.

"Easy, easy, _querido._ Don't push yourself. Listen, listen, okay? We don't have much time to pull this off. Can you trust me, for just this bit?" Von Otto asked, quiet, gentle, his expression open and earnest.

_Bucky?_

It couldn't hurt worse. It couldn't hurt worse than this. His head jerked in a feeble attempt at a nod.

A feeble attempt at choice.

Von Otto's lips pulled back again, and again, he was struck with the wrongness of his face, like the face didn't…didn't…

Fit.

"Give me one moment, _querido_." Von Otto whispered.

He stepped back, turned, and stuck his head out the main door. "It seems to be a success," He shouted out to anyone listening in the hall. "I vill need at least zhen mere minutes to finish zis and make sure he doesn't remember anysing."

Again, the German of his accent crawled against the asset's insides, he knew a German accent, he _knew_ and this-

This-

A shout of confirmation from somewhere further away, and Von Otto pulled back, slamming the door shut. Walked to the chair.

His screaming tore through the room, angry, hollow and broken.

But…

He wasn't…wasn't making noise?

Von Otto pulled away from where he'd set a recorder, the loop of his pained whimpers playing, and hustled over to stand beside him. The doctor then looked up at him and held out his arms. "Come here, _querido_."

He froze.

Not this.

Not-not again, no, no, please, please-

Von Otto pulled his shoulders down so he could whisper in his ear. "_Querido, _no one will ask you for that again, if they do, I will dice their _cahones_. Okay? Know I am here, and do not jump for I am about to shout."

He managed a nod.

"Vill you stop your ceaseless noise you mutt! Now, tell me, vhat do you remember?" The doctor roared over his ear, seemingly at the body that should be in the chair.

He flinched.

On cue, the recording started screaming. Again. Von Otto pulled him closer. "Listen. There is only two ways out of here, including the air ducts. It is your choice how you want to leave. The air ducts will be close and confining, and I am not sure how you feel about that. Going through the door to leave from the back of the bank will be more difficult, and will alert the shit-for-brains fuckers that are here to what we're doing. Your call."

He sucked in a breath.

Choice.

Again.

"I…" His voice broke. "I…" He swallowed harshly. "Not… Not confined. I…"

Von Otto lightly touched his knuckles to the asset's cheek. "Hey, hey, it's okay, _querido._ Whatever you want. We're gonna have to fight a bit to get out, though, okay? I'm a shitty shot, but I can lie well enough. If they figure it out, there's gonna be hell. Is that alright?"

His mouth tightened and his right hand trembled. He jerked a nod.

Von Otto's expression turned sad, sad.

"Okay, _querido._ Okay. I'm going to need you to not respond. You know how they want you to not talk, and not to move, and not to do anything? I need you to pretend to be like that for me. I will be shouting at you. I will be saying terrible things. Is that okay?"

Again, he nodded, shoving the grey murk of his mind beneath the calm of a mission.

A mission.

This, he knew.

Von Otto touched his jaw once, then shut off the recording, pocketed it, and took him by the arm, his grip gentle, feather-light. "C'mon. Be ready. We may have to fight." And pushed open the door.

The hall was empty, save for a guard at the end. Von Otto tugged him out, through the door.

The guard snapped to attention, gun ready, trained on the asset.

"At ease, soldier. I promise you zhat he is totally harmless. Zhe drug has vorked vonderfully, and I haf faith zhat he vill complete his mission very easily." Von Otto barked.

The guard shifted, and the nerves, the tendons, the pressure points in his body stood out. Should he attack, he'd be dead within moments. The guard relaxed, and mumbled a "thank God, thank God for you, Mr. Otto. The asset's a monster, it's a beast, it's, it's-"

"Yes, sank you, but ve must be going." Von Otto said, shooting the guard a harsh, harsh glare. "Do not underestimate zhe contributions zhat zhe Vinter Soldier has gifen us. Heil Hydra."

The guard snapped to, saluting sharply. "Hail Hydra!"

And Von Otto dragged him on, pushing him around the corner and up the stairs, flicking switches all along the way.

"I don't know how long we have until they realize that something's gone wrong." Von Otto spoke softly, his voice rolling over the shuffle of their footsteps. His hand remained curled around the asset's arm.

No, not the asset-

Or was-

Wait, he-

_Bucky?_

"I think the parking garage exit is still operating… Quickly, we don't have much time." Von Otto breathed, tugging more insistently on his arm.

He stumbled along, the walls blurring together, the hall an endless stretch of cold, cold concrete, the dank air seeping into his joints, and despite the lidocaine, it ached, it _ached_, like something being torn, ripped away and he just-

"There, the red jeep. Think 'ya can get in the passenger side?"

He blinked and glanced down at Von Otto. "I…" Swallowed. "I…I…"

His expression must have been something awful, because Von Otto's face twisted, and his mouth pulled tight. "Those motherfuckers are all gonna burn in hell."

He looked at the car. The paint chipped and peeled, and the windows were spattered with mud.

"Quickly!" Von Otto shouted.

He climbed into the passenger side, watching as Von Otto sprinted to the far side of the garage to flip a few switches, and then he was back, throwing open the driver's side door and jumping in and-

And-

Von Otto-

No. She-

She?

Von Otto reached up and pulled the cybernetic mask from her face, the white, wrinkled, balding face pulling away to reveal bright eyes and dark, dark sun-kissed skin, and deep auburn hair that spooled around her heart shaped face in wild, tangled curls.

"C'mon, white boy, we've got some _hijueputas _to kill." She said, a wicked smirk tugging at her lips. "Buckle up!"

And she threw the car in gear, roaring out from the parking garage and turning right into traffic. A chorus of honks rose around them as she swerved to avoid being hit.

"We only have a few seconds before-"

The whine of police sirens tore through the air, cutting her off.

"-shit. Hold on, things are about to get a little rough." she shouted over the drone of the sirens, before yanking the car onto the sidewalk and flooring it down the street.

People in front of them screamed and threw themselves out of the way. Von Otto grit her teeth and drove faster

Gunfire, and then, then-

The back windshield shattered and he shook, he shook, and his mind whirled in a rush of light and anger and red and red and-

Von Otto pressed a remote into his hand. "Press it! Hopefully it will confuse them long enough so we can shake them!"

He stared at it, the single switch and the green, blinking light. "It's…It's for…"

"Blowing that joint and killing all those motherfuc-"

He flipped the switch.

And for a moment, nothing, just the still, the chill of October air hanging thick around them.

Then,

Then the jeep lurched forward, shaken by the force of the explosion, concrete and debris pelted the street, fire licked at buildings and cars and the world tilted dangerously as another car hit the jeep and Von Otto swore, cursing violent, colorful words in a language he didn't, couldn't remember, before the car righted itself and they were driving, down, down the street, the whine of the police cars fading in the screams, the screaming that erupted in their wake.

Chaos never sounded so much like music.

Von Otto swerved around the corner and the asset grabbed at the dash to steady himself.

"Sorry about that. Fuckin' DC is a shithole when it comes to driving." Through the rear-view mirror, she glowered at the shot-out windshield. "Fuck. Gonna have to fix that again."

A silence. Von Otto gave him a contemplative look.

"I'm Irene. Don't ask why I'm saving your sorry ass, that's a long story you don't want to hear. If anyone asks who I am, tell them I am Freidrich von Otto, and that I am a man. Okay? That's all I ask from you, okay, _querido_?"

He nodded, his body responding automatically.

She looked at him for a long moment, then handed him a pair of pliers. "You know how I said to trust me? You're gonna have to do that for a bit. You've got three trackers in you that you might want out. Do you?"

"Yeah." He rasped. His throat itched a bit. The lidocaine was still working.

"Okay, then listen careful-" The jeep jerked over a pothole. "-ly. In the middle of your left bicep, on the fourth seam, there's a latch to free the panel. Push it."

The panel to the insides of his arm swung open.

"Good. Okay, you see that blinking red light? And how there are five wires running through it? Cut only the bottom two on both sides. _Do not touch the top three._ One short circuits the whole things, and _ay Dios mio_, is that a fucking hassle to rewire, and the other two release electric shocks, so no, don't do that. Just the bottom two."

He cut the bottom two. The light stopped blinking.

"Okay, great, you're doing great. Next thing, can you look at the middle of your left palm? There's another latch for that one? Yeah, got it? Great, you're doing great _querido_. Okay, another blinking light, right? This time it's green. _No don't cut the bottom two! Dios! Chicos estos días. _Okay, okay, sorry, this time you've gotta cut the second from the top on both sides, and only that one. Okay?"

He cut it. The light stopped blinking.

"Good. You're doing good. Okay, okay, we've got one more…" Irene took a sharp turn onto the highway headed towards Atlanta. "Okay, you've gotta trust me on this. We can pull over here and I can get it out if you want, okay? This one's gonna hurt. Feel your right collarbone? Yeah, that bump? Yeah, it's another. I am so sorry. I am so sorry."

He closed his eyes. Dug the pliers into his shoulder and pulled it out, the lidocaine still numbing his skin.

"_Cristo, hijueputa, hágame un favor y no lo hagas nunca más!_ Jesus, why would you do that, and now you're bleeding all over _mi coche, y qué es la problema con chicos estos días, yo no sé…_" She tore her heavy overcoat off, throwing it at him. "Quick, stop the bleeding, okay." He stared at her, the coat clutched tight in the steel of his hand, uncomprehending.

The asset heals itself. The asset does not require assistance. The asset is-

The asset is-

Is-

_Bucky?_

Irene made an aborted, strangled noise. "Push that against the wound. It will stop the bleeding, okay?" Her expression broke, just a bit, when he pressed the coat to the wound, slow and hesitant. "Do you still have the trackers?" she asked again, after a pause.

He nodded.

She sighed, and pushed the gas pedal down.

In the fading sunlight, he made out two kids sleeping, nestled against each other in the back seat of the car beside him. Two women sat in the front.

"Okay, I'm gonna pull over in a town halfway to Atlanta, if HYDRA tries to track you anywhere, they'll go this way, okay?"

He didn't respond.

She didn't either.

Only kept driving.

He stared back out the window, watching cars, trees and the setting sun pass into the night, the mile markers ticking on and on, until the sun painted fire across the heavens, oranges and reds and yellows that hissed and burned, and burned in his mind, burned like wipe him and start over, like would you like some milk, like, like-

The streetlights had just flickered on when Irene pulled off the interstate and trundled down a one lane road towards a smattering of lights on the horizon.

On the right, a sign reading "Welcome to South Hill!" flashed into the night.

A minute later, Irene pulled into the lot of a beat down hotel, close against the wall.

"Quick. Throw it over by the wall there. Let them think we're holed up here, okay?"

He curled his fingers (cold, metal) around the flashing disks and hurled them out the window, the lights disappearing into the growing dark.

"Want to go to my apartment and get yourself cleaned up? I've heard that helps with clearing your mind. Showers are nice. Have they ever let you shower?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Okay, shower it is, c'mon, snowman, let's get you cleaned up." She threw the car into gear and roared out of the lot, down the road, and back onto the interstate.

The horizon had just turned pink with dawn when she glanced over at him. "Hey, _querido_, you ever start hurting – physical, mental, emotional – or even just feeling uncomfortable, you tell me, or signal me, or let me know, okay?"

He stared at her for a long moment.

Nodded.

Choice. He could –

He could tell people. If he wanted.

He nodded again.

"I knew him-I…I knew him … right?"

Irene nodded and gave him a sad smile. "Yeah. Yeah you did. You _know_ him. And he knows you. After you get cleaned up, wanna go see what we can get you to remember?"

What he wanted.

Wanting. Choice. Freedom to choose. He could pick anything he wanted and he wanted –

Something curled in his chest, bright and angry.

"I… I want…. milk."

Irene smiled. "Anything you want, _querido._ You deserve it."

* * *

Irene's apartment hunched in on itself, the ledges stooped and the furniture gnarled. Books crammed every nook and canny, some freshly read, others dressed in dust with spiderwebs for jewelry.

"Here it is, home sweet home. Shower's over there, you go ahead and get started, I'll see if my ex-girlfriend had anything that would fit you. She was almost your size, so I'll see if she forgot anything in my closet when she moved out." Irene smiled this jeering, twisting smile, and then turned and sauntered to a back room.

He stood for a moment, the muscles in his arms and torso and legs tense, so tense, this couldn't be right, he wasn't given this-

This-

Freedom, he couldn't he-

He-

His eyes chased around the room, searching for a trick, a trap. Bugs, listening devices, cameras, recorders, anything, everything but-

But-

There was nothing.

Just…silence.

Silence.

The sound of a closet door sliding open drifted through the plaster walls.

Shower.

Right.

He took a step forward, waiting, waiting for retribution.

Nothing.

And another.

Stepped over a crate, then around a heap of clothes.

Pushed through a stack of boxes.

Avoided books that spilled from the bookcase and onto the floor and, finally-

Finally-

Pushed open the door at the end of the hall, into the cramped bathroom.

Shower. Right.

Shower.

Shower.

But…

How?

Hands, whole and broken, reaching, reaching out and turning the spout.

He looked up to see the water spurt from the showerhead, rippling, rolling down his skin, the air thickening with steam and fog and and and –

He sucked in a deep breath. Water dripped down his cheeks and for the first time in… in… in…

He…

Warm.

He felt warm.

He looked at his hands. One real. The other real. Both his. But they weren't his. They were someone else's hands, someone else's body, someone else, someone else…

"Hey big guy, you in there?" Irene, knocking on the door. "I've got some things that might fit you, but the shirt that says 'pussy thrasher' is probably out, I don't think it's your style. It's also too small. Don't forget to shampoo your hair, it smelled nasty, okay."

A pause.

"_Querido, _can you make some noise?"

He lifted the hand that was his but wasn't and rapped the knuckles against the wall.

"Thanks. Don't waste all my hot water, okay? I still want some for tomorrow."

Silence. Irene wandered off. He looked at his hands again.

For a moment, he watched them grow wings, watched them fly away from his body, watched his legs fly away too, and then his torso, and his face, his head, until all that was left was his sinking, sinking heart, with little strings of blood twisting down the drain.

He blinked and his not hands were back, trembling, a minute quiver along the line of his wrists, as if they weren't flesh and metal but nerves and nerves and nerves and shaking, trembling and falling and falling.

Falling, and-

And-

The not hand closed around the shampoo bottle, tremors wracking the not arms and the not body and the not him. The cap burst, gel erupted from the top of the bottle, spilling down the sides, deep into the grooves of the hands and down, down, down, always, always falling falling fallingfallingfallingfalling-

His fingers buried in his hair.

Air ripped from his lungs, a feeble, haunted gasp.

Hands unclenched. Clenched. Unclenched.

Suds rolled down his temples, clinging to the scruff on his cheeks and chin, clinging, clinging, desperately, before wedging loose and falling, falling into the abyss below and fallingfallingfalling-

"Hey, _querido_? You still okay in there? Do you need me to come in? I mean, I really, _really_, don't want to see any kinds of penis in any ever, but… you alive?"

He dunked his head back beneath the scorch of the water, the shampoo washing free, soapy water running through his eyes.

He didn't blink.

He kept the water running until his skin turned red and the lingering scent of lilacs faded down the drain.

He shut off the faucet, the steam ghosting across the skin that wasn't his, the body that wasn't his, and he stumbled out of the shower, his legs nearly giving out.

"Hey! Do you need my help? I'm not gonna come in unless you knock on the floor, wall or whatever, or verbally tell me to, okay? I'm not gonna fuck with your privacy, so you gotta let me know if you need help."

He grunted and tried to push himself from the floor, but swayed, swayed.

"I…" The words stuck in his throat. "….please."

Irene slipped in without a word, bare feet slapping against the tile floor. Moments later, the soft husk of a towel against the skin.

Warm.

He closed his eyes, something deep in his bones aching, aching for stiff, cold sheets and whispered jokes and promises between chattering teeth, huddled on the cold floor and bright blue, bright blue eyes.

The towel rubbed at his shoulders, his back, his chest, his neck, forcing the warmth into the skin that wasn't his, before it draped over his shoulders and Irene was there, pushing him, her hands careful and slow, back against the wall.

She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

"There. Better, yeah?"

He looked at her a long moment, and nodded, slow and deliberate.

"I don't… Don't cut it… can you… move it?" He lifted the flesh arm to gesture to his hair. She tucked another wet strand behind his ear.

"Of course. How does a braid sound?"

He nodded and his lips twisted into something old, something so distant and… and…

_Bucky?_

"Hey, stay here with me. Don't go off into your mind. There's not time for that now, okay? Soon, soon we'll work through all that mess. But you can't let it eat you up like this yet, okay?" Her hands were soft, tender, pulling wet strand after wet strand back from his face.

He closed his eyes.

Touch. It had been so long, he… he couldn't…

"There. All done."

He glanced up at her open, smiling face, watching as she pulled her glasses off and rubbed at her eye, before settling them back on her face.

"Let's get you some milk, yeah?"

Something twisted on his face, curling.

_Bucky?_

"…Yeah."

Irene's smile was gentle, so gentle. Pushed clothes into his arms, waited to see if he needed help and padded out, leaving him to dress. Alone. Alone but warm.

His hair was braided.

Shirt. One arm. Other arm.

They were his.

Sweatpants. One leg. The other.

His.

He stood. In the mirror, there was a man who looked like him, but wasn't him, but was.

"I knew him." He told the man. The man looked surprised. "I _knew_ him." He told the man again. Himself.

_Bucky?_

His face. That man's face, washed in white and cold, and white and cold and cold and the rush of the air through his bones and down and down and falling.

"Hey! If you're ready to come down, I've got your milk. I know you're trying to get stuck in your head, but now's not the time for that, okay?"

He closed his eyes, feeling the not skin and not flesh of his hands curl around the marble counter.

Not skin. Not flesh. Not metal. Not bone. Not him.

He looked back up at the man in the mirror. A stray hair fell in his eyes, eyes so empty and tired and…

…and not quite so cold. He let out a breath. Stood. And walked out to the kitchen.

A glass of milk sat on the table. Across from him, Irene was propped up in her chair, one foot on the table, the other folded across her thigh, a book in her hand, a peach in the other. She took a bite, her teeth flashing white.

"Oh! Good, you're down. Whenever you're ready, we'll go wherever." She paused, a smaller, more hesitant smile on her face. "This is for you. Okay? All the choices we make, everywhere we go – all up to you."

He blinked.

Choice.

His. Choice.

Freedom.

"…alright."

Irene smiled. "Drink your milk, _querido._ Let's go fuck shit up." She tossed the peach core in the trash and stood, smoothing back her wild, curling mane into a ponytail before smiling at him and tossing him a hoodie.

He caught it. In his hands. His.

His.

"If you want to wear that, it's up to you."

He stared. Pulled it on. Reached out and closed his hand around the glass of milk.

Choice.

He took a sip. And another.

Choice. Choice.

_Want some milk?_

Yes.

_Yes._

He set the glass down. Watched his not-hand shake, tremble, a mass of nerves and nerves, something uncomfortable, hot, hissing in his veins, just beneath his skin.

"Where…where are we going?"

Irene shrugged. "I was thinking we should go check out the museum, they've got this exhibit on you, you know, help you see what else you can get back, before heading out somewhere West, where no one will find you. It's totally up to you, okay?"

He pulled his mouth into that…expression. It was alright. His tongue didn't move, so he just nodded.

"Hey, what do you want me to call you? Or do you just want me to keep calling you _querido_?"

"The man on the bridge... He… He called me Bucky… Is that… who I am?"

Irene shrugged. "Hell if I know. That was your old name, I guess. Well, nickname, because Buchanan is just a shitty-ass middle name. Who the fuck names their child after the shittiest president in US history? But who you are is up to you, _querido._ I'm not gonna tell you one way or the other."

_Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. __Three, two, five, five, seven. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. Three, two, five, five, seven._

"James." It tasted like lead in his mouth, heavy, bitter, sticking to his tongue. "No. I don't… I.." He looked at her, the words missing, swirling in the grey fog of his mind. "This isn't… this isn't my body. It's not mine."

Irene's mouth did that same funny twist thing his did, her expression distant. "Yeah, I understand. Do you mind if I just call you _querido_, then?"

He nodded once and she made that face again, sticking out her hand for him to take.

"Okay then, _querido_, let's get out of here."

He took her hand and she pulled him to his feet, gave him a small smile then walked through the door. He followed.

* * *

On the drive, he watched the fingers of his not hands twist together, the panels and endless grooves of his left mirroring the calloused lines of his right, but neither were his hands, they-

They weren't his-

"It's…It's just a body." He whispered. Irene made an inquisitive noise from beside him. His fingers curled tighter together. "'S just a body." His words were softer, softer, fading into the fake leather seats and the cloth sides of the jeep.

He didn't look to see her expression, but he heard the catch in her breath, the creak of her knuckles as they tightened around the steering wheel.

"I know," she whispered back, the quiet of the car sacred. "I know it is, _querido._"

"They…they're all just… bodies." A strand of hair fell in his face, and he kept his gaze fixed on the interlock of the not hands, his voice all but sucked up by the still of the jeep.

Irene just whispered back, "I know. I know."

The jeep nearly ate her words, too.

The rumble of guns and violence hummed at the edges of his awareness.

He thought-

He thought…

Memories?

Irene cursed under her breathe and flicked the radio on.

_"We've been receiving reports over the past few minutes that Captain America seems to be fighting on the aircraft that were just spotted rising out of the Potomac, which appear to be SHIELD craft. We're still receiving details as we speak, and don't know when we'll have a clear picture on what's going on-"_ Irene shut it off.

"_Gracias a Dios,_" she hissed under her breath. "I'm glad SHIELD is finally getting around to taking out those loads of shit."

He faced her, waiting.

His right hand shook.

"You know how HYDRA kept you in the dark for a lot of important shit, right? Well, those Helicarriers were one of them. My brother – well, technically, I – worked on them. They're supposed to take out anyone who's a threat, so I really hope that whatever the fuck they're calling themselves these days takes it down. I really don't want to die." She gave him a smile, but he could read the tense line of her shoulders, the stretch of her skin across her knuckles.

She pulled a harsh turn onto another street, ignoring the resulting chorus of honking that arose.

"Fucking DC fat cats, shut the fuck up." She snarled under her breath, keeping up a steady litany of curses as she navigated the roads, looking for parking.

A few minutes later, she cut off a minivan to pull into a tight space, and laughed at the resulting crude gesture. She sighed and cut the ignition, pulling her keys out.

"Alright. C'mon, snowman, let's get your memories back." She hopped out of the Jeep and waited.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them. Watched the not hand pull the handle, push the door, and-

Step out. He stumbled, just a bit, but righted himself a step later.

The corner of Irene's mouth twisted, before she locked the jeep, and moved to stand in front of him.

"Hey, do I have your permission to fix your clothes?" She asked.

He felt his brows draw close, before he jerked his head in assent. Another small, gentle curl to her lips, and she adjusted the collar on his jacket, and smoothed the rumples from his tee.

"Hey, _querido_, at any time you get uncomfortable and there's too many people around, just let me know, okay?" Irene glanced up at him, her mouth pulling into a frown. "Okay? If anything makes you uncomfortable I won't do it, you just have to say."

She was giving him-

Him the-

Choice.

_Choice_.

"I…" His right hand shook. "…alright." The not fingers clenched, and unclenched.

Irene's lips curled back, her teeth bared. "Alright, let's go. From what I've heard the exhibit it pretty great, and being part of Hydra gets you some great benefits, let me tell you. Seriously, an all access pass to all national monuments and museums. Like, it's so ironic I can just hear the hipsters dying."

His not hands, his not arms, his not body shook at all the exposure, at the crowds, his eyes pinned on the exists, as Irene flashed her ID at the guard behind the gate, who let her in with a rushed apology. Before he had even finished apologizing, the asset had already scoped out the primary three weapons he held, twelve ways to disarm him, and thirty-four ways to kills him and-

"Hey, _querido, _stay with me, okay? Don't get too lost in your head. Not yet, okay?" Lines dug into Irene's face, her eyebrows pushing together and the deep green of her eyes so worried, and worried.

His right hand trembled.

"I…okay… I… here it…" he trailed off.

Irene's expression went soft, but she said nothing.

"C'mon. Let's find that exhibit, okay?"

He nodded, and pushed his not hands further into the pockets of the jacket. Irene turned and sauntered through throngs of people, throngs of strangers pouring around them. He tried to keep close.

A flood of elementary school kids washed between the two of them and blindly, he reached out with the not hand of flesh, grabbing for her arm, her sweatshirt, anything-

She reached back, letting him catch her by the wrist, letting him shake and shake and shake and breathe and breathe and breathe.

"You're okay. Just little tiny terrors. They're all gone for now, but there might be more in the exhibit. You gonna be okay?"

He watched his right not hand shake and shake. "…I… can… continue."

Irene's mouth tightened. "Alright. Just a bit further."

Just a bit further. An order.

Alright.

He could do that.

The not feet moved, step after step, following Irene around corners and down hallways, down an escalator, and then-

Then-

The man from the bridge.

The man from the bridge plastered on banners, on the walls, everywhere.

Oh. The exhibit.

_Bucky?_

_I knew him._

"Hey, if you need me, I'm gonna be talking to my friend Shelly, she's right over there." She gestured to a curvy woman with red lips and deadly smile leaning against the wall. Irene's smile was almost predatory, before it dropped, for a half second. "I figure you wanna explore this on your own, yeah?"

He nodded. And Irene's eyes went soft for a breath, before she caught the woman's eye again, and that feral expression was back.

The asset faced the exhibit.

It was… surprisingly empty. A straggler here or there, but… there were so few people.

So few.

He ventured forward, skimming over the cursive font dancing on the wall in quotation marks, the flash of the changing screens, moving, moving step by step until-

Until-

Manequins.

A single row of mannequins, all dressed to perfection, save the middle one, which was buck-ass naked.

He blinked.

He took in the uniforms, familiarity thudding against the back of his skull, and say, didn't that blue jacket look pretty swell-

And froze.

No that-

That couldn't be right.

That wasn't-

He wasn't-

He blinked to see his not hand tangled around a limp strand of hair. He forced the fingers open, one by one.

Step by step.

He shoved the not hand back into his pocket. Forced himself to turn. Face the rest of the exhibit and stepped-

And-

And that-

That… that face.

The face that wasn't his.

But it was.

He-

_Bucky?_

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

_WhothehellisBuckywhothehellisBuckywhothehellisBucky-_

He stumbled back, nearly colliding with a small girl, two fingers stuffed in her mouth, her eyes wide.

"I…" But his voice failed him, and he sank to his knees before the tiny girl.

She pulled her spit drenched fingers from her mouth and with her other hand, pulled a hair tie from her wrist.

"Hey. My mommy says that if you got long hair that doesn't co-opaate,"

He blinked at the attempted sophistication.

"you gotta put it all up. And you only have one ponytail holder, so you can't do pigtails, like me!" She shook her head for emphasis, her tiny, curling pigtails bouncing in the air as she moved.

He didn't move.

She pushed the hair tie further at him. "You gotta take it!" Her voice was raising.

His right hand shook and shook and shook but he-

He reached out, until she dropped the small tie in his hand.

"There. Now you can make your hair look nice, too!"

The not fingers closed around the tie.

"I…" Words failed again.

The girl stuck out her tongue, but her eyes danced. "Fix your messy hair, mister!"

An order. He could-

"Yes, ma'am." He whispered, but somehow, it wasn't cold.

She smiled and ran off.

His traitorous right hand shook and shook and shook.

A long moment passed, before he stood, turned, and-

Turned.

And there. Again.

The face that was and wasn't his.

He stared at the face, the smile, that twisting of lips so distant, so foreign.

He felt his heart grow wings and flutter in his chest, before fluttering off, out, through the thin glass, blood spilling over the floor in its wake.

A hole in his chest.

He blinked. His pulse roared, steady, in his ears. The target smiled over at his image on the screen. The air rushed out of the lungs, air he shouldn't, couldn't be breathing, breathing.

_"Hey. Pick on someone your own size." His fist collided with a face, a twisted, sneering face scrunched up in shock, followed by a (weak, so weak by his standards now) kick. He turned back. The man – boy, really – shoved himself off the ground. "Sometimes, I think you like getting punched."_

_"I had him on the ropes." The man replied, all thin and frail, and bleeding from the nose. Something burned in his chest, fierce, bright and so, so warm._

_A knot wedged in his throat, he couldn't speak, this… this man he-_

_He-_

He yanked back, and pulled the hood further down his face. He couldn't… He… he couldn't.

He managed his way over to where Irene was leaning close, whispering secrets to the woman, and stood, looking to the side, looking around, trying not to stare at her, trying not to- not to-

"Jeeez, _querido,_ couldn't you have chosen a better ti-" She shot him a half-hearted glare that immediately shifted into something else. She gave the girl one quick kiss and held out her hand. "C'mon, _querido._ Let's get outta here. Let's go somewhere safe."

He could barely manage a nod, let alone curl the fingers of the (metal) hand around hers. The skin trembled, the arms locked up, the legs hurt to move and felt stiff, so stiff and it hurt, it hurt it hurt –

He couldn't breathe, no more air, and the mouth guard was coming, coming soon, and he could nearly taste the tang of the plastic and he couoldn't-

Couldn't-

Breathe-

"**_Querido!_**"

He jerked up, his eyes wide.

They were in the Jeep. Driving. Far away.

Away.

Irene floated back into focus.

"Hey, yeah, there you are. Hey, nice to see you again. That was a nasty panic attack you had there. You feeling better? You back with me?"

He nodded again.

"Okay, I'm thinking we head out to somewhere in rural upstate New York, away from the buzz of people, let you get healed up. That sound okay?"

Another faint bob of his head. She gave him a small smile.

"We don't have to talk, okay?" She murmured, her voice loud in the still of the car. "If you don't want to talk, I'm not gonna make you. But, you gotta know, it'll help you in the long run, okay? But not until you're ready. That just fucks things up."

"…alright." His voice wavered. Weak. Weak.

She gave him a smile and punched on the radio, to soft guitar and aching, crooning vocals, heavy bass backing.

_"…Changes fill my time, baby, that's alright with me. In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be. Did you ever really need somebody, and really need 'em bad? Did you ever really want somebody, the best love you ever had?..."_

He closed his eyes against the heat flushing through his veins, burning at his eyelids, hot and queasy, hot and bitter.

_"...Do you ever remember me, baby, did it feel so good? 'Cause it was just the first time, and you knew you would. Through the eyes an' I sparkle, senses growing keen. Taste your love along the way, see your feathers preen…"_

Against the starlit night sky, in a rickety, old Jeep, the Winter Soldier fell asleep, voluntarily, for the first time in years.

_"…Never thought I'd see your face the way it used to be. Oh darlin', oh darlin', I'm never gonna leave you. I'm never gonna leave. Holdin' on, ten years gone…"_

* * *

He woke with a start, his head blank, grey, blank, empty.

_I knew him._

Who?

Who did he know?

The ground under him rocked. He tensed, muscles going into overdrive, grabbing for his spare MP-443 Grach, fingers closing on thin air, and he whirled to see –

He was in a Jeep. A girl driving, the radio humming out a strange tune.

He blinked.

"How was the sleep?"

He blinked again.

"…alright."

The girl smiled. Irene smiled. There.

There.

The day's memories seeped back into the murk of his mind.

"We'll be there in like… twenty minutes, so great job on waking up on time."

He pushed himself up in his seat.

"The exhibit… it said my name was James…Barnes."

Irene dipped her head in agreement.

"I don't… I can't go by that name yet."

Irene shrugged. "Okay. What do you want to go by? It's going to be pretty damn awkward introducing you to my mama as _querido_, especially since she knows that I don't do dudes."

A strange sound forced out of his throat, ragged and painful, but…

But good. Light.

Laughter.

Barely, but laughter all the same.

"I can… I can go by Jack." He hesitated. "It's… similar. But it's not that name. It's… something different. Maybe someday but… I can't yet."

Irene just grinned. "It's very nice to meet you, Jack."

Jack managed a small, tight smile back.

Irene rolled into the dirt driveway of a small house. Around them, open fields and groves of trees stretched for miles after miles.

"What do you think? Good?"

"…yeah."

Irene kicked open the door. "C'mon, then, let's introduce you to mama and my brother. You might recognize him, he was undercover at HYDRA with me. It's kind of a family business to disrupt big evil corporations, you know."

Oh yeah. Oh yeah, he knew.

Irene sauntered in through the rickety, white, wood door, ignoring the paint peeling from it and the rest of the house.

"_Mamá! Estoy aquí! Tengo un amigo, también, _okay? _Quiere estar aquí por unas semanas, está bien?_"

Her mom replied in rapid Spanish, and then walked down the stairs, same dark skin and thick, curly hair, but with thin streams of silver and white bleeding through, betraying her age. She froze the moment she saw him.

And immediately proceeded to shout at Irene, furious and vehement.

Somewhere in this exchange, a man wandered into the room, looked at him, then at the arguing women and shrugged.

"Ah, _El Soldado del Invierno._ It's good to see Irene got you out all in one piece." Again, dark skin, auburn hair, and dark eyes with just a touch of green. Family.

Family.

He moved his head just a bit, to acknowledge the man, before he, too, launched into the rapid fire argument.

The mother stopped after a moment and pointed a finger at Jack.

"You! You harm my family, I will make things so much more miserable than HYDRA did. Do not underestimate me."

He bowed his head. "Yes."

She huffed. "I'm going to work you into the dirt. You can recover out here, but you're going to be working the whole time. Hard work is good for the soul."

"Mam-"

"No, Irene, you listen here. I put up with you and your brother's lying, and your working in a terrorist cell, and then lying to the national security agency, but I _will not tolerate a freeloading assassin in my kitchen!_ You want him to stay here, he works to stay, just like the rest of us."

Irene fell silent. Jack found himself in awe. The mother's expression softened.

"What is your name, _soldado?_"

"Jack."

The mother smiled, a tight, but genuine thing. "I am Esperanza. You may call me that, or Mrs. Rendón. It's up to you. Come now, we're going to cook dinner. I hope you are okay with chopping vegetables."

He caught Irene's gaze, worried and worried, and so worried. He looked back at Esperanza.

"I can help."

Esperanza looked smug. "Good. You're gonna have to eat up, for tomorrow, you will be working in the field with Irene and Lee. We have a garden to tend and animals to take care of, you know." She turned. "C'mon, Jack. Let's get dinner ready."

The not feet moved, following Mrs. Rendón, his not hands dangling loose at his sides.

She positioned him before a cutting board, pushed a flat-edged knife into his hands, curling the not fingers around the handle.

Moments later, she pulled out onions, tomatoes, a head of lettuce and avocadoes.

"You know how to cut these?" she asked, her expression blank.

He shook his head, shudders crawling up his spine. "I can… can use a… knife. But… I-" A noise pulled from his throat, some weak, pained noise he didn't think he could make. "I-"

Esperanza took mercy, her expression going soft. "Here. I will show you. Can I touch your hand?"

He looked at his right hand, trembling, trembling.

Nodded.

Trembling, trembling.

Esperanza covered his hand with her own, the thick, calloused pads of her fingers bringing him back to himself.

"For tomatoes, you take them like this, and cut out the top." She moved their hands, until the knife gouged out the top of the tomato. "Then cut in half…" A smooth slice through the heart. "Then you put the halfs like this, so they don't roll around. Cut vertically, then…" A pause, the rhythmic sound of knife on wood. "Horizontally."

The tomato lay in small cubes across the board.

"You do onions the same way, but they make your eyes water so, I'd do them last."

He lifted the not hand. Brought it down on the next tomato, clutched in the metal of his left hand. Tried to gouge off the top but-

Stabbed clean through it.

Esperanza looked over and he flinched and-

"I…I tried, I did my – my best, I was-was good, I… I was good, I, I," His skin crawled and crawled and his stomach curled in on itself and his throat lurched and the ground vanished beneath his feet and please, please don't, please not again-

"Jack. It's fine." Esperanza took the knife and neatly cut the tomato so he could still dice it, the two halves lying flat on the board. "See? It's an easy fix. You did good."

He sucked in a breath of air, his chest heaving, the hands trembling, trembling. "I…"

Esperanza set the knife down against the cutting board again. The lines around her mouth were so soft, so soft. "Hey. Hey, you haven't done this in a while. It's okay. Everyone needs practice. We have plenty of tomatoes. You just keep trying."

Another harsh breath.

Esperanza turned and went back to cooking rice and corn over the stove.

He picked up the knife in his not hand again, and steadied the tomato with his other not hand. And-

And-

Sliced through it.

Horizontally.

Vertically.

And grabbed the next.

Cut the top.

Horizontally.

Vertically.

And again.

And again.

His hand closed around empty air.

Finished.

"I…I…"

Esperanza looked over, her face lighting up at his finished work. "Fantastic. You know how to cut up avocados?"

"…no." he flinched. Inadequate, failure, could not complete mission-

"Hey. It's no problem. Can I touch your hand again?"

The asset must never deny its orders, never, never but questions, questions, and he, he-

Nodded.

Esperanza smiled, the same sad, sad expression he saw on Irene's face a few times. Then, she reached out, curling her fingers over his, guiding the not hand, the not fingers curled around the knife, to the avocado in her other hand. And, and-

"Here. Like this. You cut it in half, around the pit, right? Then," she let go of his hand to pull the seed free, the green flesh slicking under her nails. "you just pull out the seed. Now," she took his hand again, bringing the knife back to the avocado. "cut it into fourths, pull off the peel, then cut it the rest of the way just," she demonstrated. "like that. Think you can do it?"

A mission. A mission to complete.

This, he knew.

Another nod, and he brought the knife down on the next avocado, the blade slicing clean, so clean through the thick skin.

Again and again and again until no avocados remained.

He looked at Esperanza.

She shrugged. "You cut onions just like tomatoes, but they're gonna make your eyes water. I can do them if you like."

"No I…" He swallowed, his mouth dry, his tongue too heavy. "I… I can… be useful."

The tight lines around Esperanza's eyes went lax, and her face was sad, sad. "Okay, Jack." Her knuckles were white, white, her fingers clenched around ledge of the countertop. "No one here will hurt you, even if you are not useful. Okay?"

He shook his head, watching his right hand shake and shake and shake.

A harsh, angry sound came from Esperanza and she turned, shouting rapid, vehement Spanish out the doorway. Irene appeared seconds later, her eyes worried, so worried and she was there, pulling the knife from the not hand that shook and shook and shook and, and, and-

"_Querido. Querido. _Breathe. Breathe for me, okay? Deep breaths. There you go." She whispered, close, close, but not touching. "I'm gonna touch your arm. We're gonna go outside. Okay?"

He stared, his stomach dropping to his feet and the tingle of phantom sparks racing across his skin and, no, no he'd messed up, he'd messed up he did it wrong, wrong and now, now he was going to-

They were going to-

There were going to-

He dropped to his knees, waiting.

"No, no, no, ohmy_God, querido, no, eso nunca va a ocurrir, dios mío, lo siento, amado soldado roto, te quiero, te quiero._" Irene kneeled before him, her hands on his face, brushing the hair back from his eyes, the pads of her fingers so kind, so gentle, fluttering helplessly over the burning scars on his temples, on his face and he'd said all of that out loud, _he'd said all of that out loud_, and they knew, they knew and please, please, no-

No-

Irene made a pained, broken noise and begged him to breathe, just breathe, please, _amado, _please-

And something clicked.

She was calling him beloved. Beloved, please, please breathe, beloved-

Beloved-

Be-

Loved-

Be-

Loved-

A n d

g

W e n t

D a r k

* * *

_Thank you so much for reading. Bucky's in a weird state, because I thought his memories and with everything that happened, he was in an awful delicate state after the causeway... I don't know. Like I said, I'm just writing what I know. So, if you could review, that would be fantastic! Also, apologies about my Spanish. I only have two more years at university to finish, so I'm 90% certain it's decent, but since they don't teach us curses, it might not be perfect! Apologies, thank you for reading, and please review!_


End file.
